


Turn! Turn! Turn!

by Beguile



Series: Through a Glass, Darkly [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Kick-Ass (2010)
Genre: Ableist Language, Breaking and Enterring, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Season 2 AU, Spoilers for S2, Unlikely Team-Ups, concussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Hit-Girl didn’t kill the Irish, but she wants to shake hands with the guy that did.  Matt needs to make sure that doesn’t happen.  Takes place during “Bang” and “Dogs to a Gunfight”.  Season 2 AU.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit language. Ableist language. Spoiler for season 2. 
> 
> I have wanted to revisit Matt and Mindy since my one-shot back in January. I really liked their dynamic, and I thought there were more stories to tell. After much poking and prodding, I have the first half completed; the second half (to be posted soon) will include Frank. 
> 
> Mindy has one line in here that could be construed as ableist. Apologies - she is not the most tactful character.
> 
> The title comes from The Byds’s song of the same name, the lyrics of which are lifted almost entirely from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Readers, you’re too good to me. Please, enjoy! Cheers!

* * *

 Part One 

            The massacre strikes such a chord in Matt.  Déjà vu all over again.  It’s bad enough without regret to accompany it, and he does regret what happened to the Irish.  Their being torn apart by bullets signals the glorious return for Hit-Girl after months without incident, and since Hit-Girl is only free because he let her walk, well, Matt may as well have pulled the trigger himself.

            He wants to be proud, then, when she answers the phone.  He’s standing in an alley a short distance from the crime scene; Foggy’s departed, cops are milling about behind him.  And Mindy is at home.  The sound of a television buzzes from her end of the line as adoptive-dad Marcus mentions that this is the good part, Baby Girl.  Tell them you’ll call back.  Hearing Mindy say she’ll be off in a second without that homicidal edge to her voice should be comforting too.  Matt was the one who urged her to give normal life a try.  Hang up the cape, mask, and wig for a while and be a kid.  Clearly, she’s done that.  Mindy is watching movies on a weeknight with her adoptive father. Hit-Girl has been MIA. 

            But if she’s not in Hell’s Kitchen, someone else is responsible, and they’re still on the loose.

            He makes up some lie to get her off the scent – that he’s just checking in, hadn’t heard from her in a while – and lets her get back to the movie.  “Good,” Mindy says contentedly.  “ _The Killer_ is on, and white doves just started flying.  We’re T-minus two seconds away from a fight scene.”

            Turns out Matt is a little more than T-minus two seconds away from a fight scene too.  He just doesn’t know it yet. 

* * *

             Daylight burns while Matt waits out the symptoms of his concussion.  By the time he reaches Melvin's, it seems like he may be through the worst of them.  He takes to the streets once his helmet's welded and returns to the crime scene.  

             Working with a concussion isn’t so difficult.  Matt’s done more with concussions in the past than stalk the scent of gunpowder and dog through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.  When that runs out, the sound of a police scanner brings him to the right place.  He finds himself standing under a rundown apartment complex.  The unmistakeable odour of wounded pit bull drains out of a second-floor window along with a spicy bite of explosive material.  Matt’s so focused on finding the best way inside that he doesn’t notice someone comes up to stand beside him.

            “What a shithole.”  
  
            He snaps out of his reverie.  “Min-“

            She stops him: “Don’t say my name.”

            Matt refuses to call her by her _other_ name, lest she take it as an invitation.  “You’re not wearing your costume.” 

            “I’m incognito,” Mindy replies.  She’s wearing cotton and polyester, athletic wear.  A hoodie and sweat-pants.  Her long hair is tucked away under a beanie instead of her usual purple wig.  Matt senses a few interruptions to her undercover look.  A keychain and several other charms jangle on the zippers of her backpack.  And while she’s armed, there’s more schoolwork in her bag than artillery.  “Where’s your cute little devil costume?”     
  
            “In here,” Matt replies, pointing to his backpack.  He will not be explaining why.  “What are you doing here?”

            “I’m looking for my puppy.  Cuddly, fluffy little guy.  Answers to the name of Cock n’ Balls.  I’d show you a picture on my phone, but not only are you fucking blind, I think you already know what cock n’ balls looks like.”   

            “ _Why_ are you here?” Matt says through gritted teeth, so not in the mood for another penis joke.   
  
            “I want to pin a gold star on the guy who did that to the Irish.  Thank him for doing this city a favour.”     
  
            Of course she would.  Her little heart gets gleeful at the thought of someone stepping up, taking over where Hit-Girl left off.  “You shouldn’t be here, Min-“

            “DUDE.  No names.” 

            Matt suppresses the urge to say it again, both syllables of it.  Her real name.  The name of the twelve-year-old girl she deserves to be. “You need to go home.” 

            “Marcus is asleep.  He won’t even notice I’m gone.”

            “That’s not the point.  I am not letting you get involved in this.  It’s too-“  
  
            “Dangerous?”  
  
            He releases a sigh.  The word sound so strange coming from her mouth.  Like a person using their own name.  “Yeah.”  
  
            Mindy raises an eyebrow.  Her smile is audible.  “More dangerous than you?”  She fucking hopes so.   
  
            Matt levels with her.  Lets her know the truth.  “I fought him last night.  He took a shot at me, hit me right between the eyes.  I’d be dead if it wasn’t for my mask.  He is fast and deadly.  You saw what he did to the Irish.” 

            She adjusts the straps on her backpack and starts walking slowly towards the building. “My kind of guy.”   

            Matt grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back.  Mindy lets him, but her pulse revs up.  Her voice goes low and murderous.  She doesn’t need a mask to be Hit-Girl.  “Touch me again, and I’ll break your fucking arm.” 

            “I’m not going to let you do this,” he insists.

            Mindy laughs mockingly.  “What are you going to do to stop me?” 

            “I’ll call Marcus.”

            “I’ll call the cops.”  She shucks herself from his grasp.  “ _Ma-_ “   

            His turn to get stern: “No names.”  
  
            She smirks.  Matt can hear it, singing like an unsheathed blade.  “We scope out this guy’s place, I hop on the first bus back to Grand Central.  Get home to bed.  Scout’s honour.” 

            “You stay out of Hell’s Kitchen till this blows over.”  
  
            Another laugh.  Childlike, psychotic.  “I am not going to promise that.”  

            “No, you’re just going to do it.”  
  
            “This guy shot you in the face,” Mindy points out, “and you just got your ass tracked by a middle schooler.  You need me on this.”  
  
            “I need you to be safe.” 

            Her heartbeat spikes, temperature dropping.  Those words, Matt’s words, hit her.  Her may as well have punched her in the chest.  “I need you to back off,” she growls, folding her arms across her chest.  “Are we breaking and entering?  Or standing on the street like pussies some more?”

            Matt sighs.  It’s weird, hearing Stick’s words in her voice.  Seeing Stick’s philosophy in her actions.  “I think the door’s unlocked.”  
   
           Mindy laughs as she walks away from him.  “What?” Matt asks.

            “Door,” she chimes.  Her gait becomes a run.  Then her feet leave the ground and land softly against the wall of the building.  With that, Mindy begins to climb.  The charms on her backpack jingle merrily towards the sound of the police scanner. 

            Another sigh, louder.  Matt can’t help himself.  His concussed brain starts flashing HELL NO at the thought of scaling the wall of a building, and he heeds the warning. He sticks with the door.    

* * *

             The dog greets him on the way into the flat, barking.  Matt can hear Mindy soothing him over the sound of his own raging heart.  Her voice isn’t enough.  The dog doesn’t settle until Matt finds the kibble and hand feeds him.  Then it’s quiet in the apartment again.

            From an aural perspective, at least.  The apartment wreaks havoc on Matt’s other senses.  He tastes warfare: gunpowder and steel.  His mouth goes gritty with gunpowder.  The small collection of handmade explosives burn against his nostrils.  Breathing is a chore even when he stands downwind of the open window.  Matt centers himself and starts filtering through them, one by one, until he can get his bearings.  Desk to his left, bed just ahead, bullets everywhere. 

            “What do you see?” Matt asks Mindy, hoping she’s doing better with vision that he is with his remaining senses.  She seems to have found something interesting.  Her heartbeat slowly paces through the space.  “Mindy?”

            She shushes him, but the reaction is delayed.  It gets snagged on whatever’s going on in her head and barely reaches Matt’s ears.  The rest of her reactions ring loud and clear for him though: her pulse gradually begins to race; her footsteps take on a terrified quality beyond their usual cautiousness.  She treads so lightly, as if the floor might fall away from her at any moment.  As if the whole apartment building is going to come down around them.  Maybe for Mindy it already is.

            Matt fixes all his attention on her, the way she withdraws from the room the deeper she moves into it.  The way her heartbeat climbs and her temperature plummets.  The way she dares to touch a few empty shell casings lying on the desk, murmuring the name of their respective weapons.  Mindy’s whispering doesn’t end there - _AR-15, IED, M4 Carbine_ – spoken like a prayer, an offering, but not for Matt.

            She goes quiet on the far side of the apartment, and her heart enters an ever-tightening spiral.  It’s the perfect accompaniment to the litany of weapons she listed from around the room and to Matt’s own horrified heart, trying to keep pace with the twelve-year-old’s prayers of a violent god.

            Matt breathes through the fear and dares to use her name, “Hit-Girl.”

            Mindy snaps to: whips around to face him, shoving her hands deep in the pocket of her hoodie.  “Sorry.”  
  
            Strange how quickly that word comes to her, how perfectly it fits in her mouth.  Mindy and repentance seem like such unlikely acquaintances.   

            Matt takes stock before he asks more.  Mindy can flip on and off like a switch sometimes, and her heartbeat sounds a lot calmer than before.  “Are you all-“  
  
            The police scanner buzzes with the name Grotto.  Matt’s mouth goes dry.  The DA.  Setting a trap for the one man army who took out the Irish. 

            He has to go.

            “I need you out of Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt orders, heading back towards the door.  He thought he heard a rooftop access when he was coming up the stairs and hopes his ears weren’t lying to him.  “I need you to get home, now.”  
  
            “Yeah,” Mindy stalks quickly towards the window. 

            Matt doesn’t stop to listen if she follows his orders.  He trusts her heartbeat, the certainty to its rhythm even as she scales out of her building.  One beat after another leading out onto the street.  He tracks her footsteps away from him as he changes into his armour.  And he’s bolting across rooftops, halfway through thanking God that she left quickly and easily, when he realizes he’s an idiot.  Mindy whipping around, her hands diving into her pockets; her leaving without a fight when dispatch radioed about Grotto: she found something in the apartment, and he has no time to find out what. 

            All the more reason, Matt decides, to make sure this guy ends up behind bars by the end of the night.  Heaven help Hell’s Kitchen if Hit-Girl gets a chance to shake his hand.  

* * *

 

Happy Reading!

 


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit language. Spoiler for season 2. 
> 
> This chapter ended up taking a rather surprising turn. Transplanting Mindy into a universe where her morality is open to interrogation led to a revelation about her character that I decided to roll with. Again, this is more reflective of Mindy from the _Kick-Ass_ movie. More on that at the end of the fic. 
> 
> I watched a lot of "Dogs to a Gunfight" for this fic, and in the scene where Matt is inspecting Frank's apartment, the bulletin board and map of New York isn't there. It doesn't appear until "Penny and Dime". However, this is an AU, so I took liberties with some of the props. 
> 
> Hot chocolate is the last drink Mindy had with her father before his death. And that’s all I have to say about that. 
> 
> Thank you, Readers! Please, enjoy!

* * *

 

Part Two

 

            It starts with Grotto.  Frank finds the bastard fumbling with a car handle less than a block from the Dogs of Hell, making all sorts of noise.  Screaming, crying, carrying on: the fucking coward.  Seems like a happy coincidence until Frank gets a look at Grotto’s ugly mug.  He’s wearing a couple bloody gashes across his face from what looks like a pistol-whipping, and he keeps looking around while Frank works him over, reciting apologies between blows calmly, coolly, as if this is all going according to plan.  As if he isn’t staring death in the fucking face. 

            Frank doublechecks they aren’t being followed as he loads Grotto into the trunk of his vehicle.  The street’s empty.  Seems Grotto picked the wrong car to steal and someone gave him what-for on a night his life depended on it.

            But the weird shit doesn’t stop there.  After the rooftop, when after Grotto’s spilling out on the concrete and the Devil’s dragged Frank’s ass to the ground floor; when Frank has gotten the hell out of dodge, he sees her.  Standing there in his rear-view mirror.  Same height, same build.  A silhouette at the end of the alley, a black mote cut out of the streetlight.  Frank blinks and she’s gone.  Because of course she is.  His little girl is always gone. 

            The apartment door has been kicked in when he arrives, but the place is empty save for the dog.  Frank peels the shards of frame away from the latch.  He shoves a chair under the handle to hold it shut for the time being.  Max trots up to greet him, wagging his tail.  Frank pets him behind the ears.  “Some guard dog,” he grumbles tiredly.  Max licks his palms for the compliment.

            Frank unleashes the pup, lets him roam a little bit.  Max trots immediately to the corkboard at the back of the apartment.  A rush of heat runs through Frank from the sight.  At the heart of his map of the city are thumbtacked scraps, remnants from torn ticket stubs.  It’s the only thing missing from the whole place.

* * *

             He goes to the carousel packing a knife and a sidearm, half-expecting the devil to show up.  Ticket stubs were from 3 pm, so Frank gets there early.  He plants himself on the bench, watching the carousel turn. 

            It’s probably the Devil.  It’s gonna be the Devil.  He got away last night after the shit with the Dogs and is coming to finish what he started on that rooftop with pop psychology and cheap insights.

            A grocery bag hits the ground on the opposite side of the bench.  Then a backpack, decked out in fuzzy, sparkling keychains. 

            Frank looks up as a girl drops down next to him.  Small, blonde, wearing a pink sweater.  There’s cat ears on the hood that conceals most of her face.  Her legs swing under the bench, not long enough to hit the ground.  She’s hauling a picnic in her grocery bag of fresh baking in brown boxes and a tray with two hot chocolates.  Earbuds pop out of her ears blasting more saccharine sweetness.  Bubble gum pop. 

            God damn, aside for the music, it could be Lisa sitting next to him.

            He breathes through it.  Watching the carousel helps.  Seeing the world blur into motion beyond him, where the bullets can’t reach. 

            “Not gonna lie,” the girl says, “I thought this was gonna go different.” 

            Frank shoots the girl a sideways stare.  Her headphones are dangling around her neck, the music having finally stopped screeching out them, so she can’t be on a call.  There’s no one around but him. 

            He looks back at the carousel.   

            She swings her legs some more.  Then she says, “I mean I still am a big fan.  That shit with the Irish was fucking awesome.” A smile lights her eyes menacingly.  She doesn’t look at all like Lisa anymore.    

            Frank shudders inwardly. The bullet in his skull itches.  He scrubs at it.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Then he pulls his eyes away from her, scoping the place out.  It would be like them, those fuckers, to send in a plant.  Dress up some kid and put her next to him to poke the bear before they came out guns blazing.  But the crowds mill and swell and bob around him as per normal.

            The girl laughs lightly.  “And that stuff you had planned for the Dogs, man…”  

            He turns on her, trying to play it cool for the sake of the crowd.  Grown man gearing up against a twelve-year-old gets ugly real fast even if she is just a regular kid, but that’s not her, no way.  No one fucking knows who did the Irish and cops are still working through the evidence about the Dogs.  Their best guess is the Devil.  So he lets her know he isn’t fucking around.  “Who are you with?”  
  
            She laughs some more.  Her voice goes up an octave.  She sounds younger, less self-possessed, less menacing.  “I’m not with anyone, not a gang, and definitely not the cops.  Look,” she turns towards him and stares him dead in the eye the way he looks down the barrel of a gun.  “I came here to tell you I really appreciate everything you’ve done for this city.  You do good fucking work, and you deserve a thanks.”  
  
            Frank’s glances around his periphery, still waiting for the cavalry.  “What the hell do you know about it?”  
  
            The girl smiles, because she’s any other kid again.  “Basically everything.”  
  
            His blood running cold is an odd sensation.  Nothing creeps under his skin, but Frank’s working through an explanation.  This is it.  He’s finally snapped.  Conjured this version of his little girl to berate him after fucking up so ruthlessly last night with the Dogs starting with the silhouette behind his car. 

            She continues: “I’d say you’re welcome about Grotto, but chances are you would have found him anyways.  You think he was making noise after I got to him, you should have heard him before.  Dude snivels when he tries to steal a car, let alone when you put a gun to his fucking head.”

            “Don’t say fuck.”  Frank scrubs harder at his head to remind himself this isn’t Lisa and it isn’t a hallucination and they’re here.  “How’d you find my place?”

            She tosses the crumpled ticket stubs at him.  Frank grabs them before the wind takes them.  “Might want to turn your police scanner down,” she offers. 

            Frank’s blood runs cold.  No way she did all this shit by herself.  “The Devil put you up to this.”  Recruiting a fucking kid into his game of beating up bad guys is one more reason to break his God damn legs the next time Frank sees him.

            “ _Nobody_ puts me up to anything.”  And she means it. 

            “You don’t do this yourself.  No.”  Frank doesn’t believe it.  He can’t.  Breaking and entering _his_ place, following him to his car, _Grotto_.  Fucking Grotto.  Pistol whipped and screaming.  By a kid.  No way.  No fucking way. 

            “All me,” she assures him, tugging at the strap on her backpack protectively.  “I’m like you.”   

            “Ain’t nothing like me.”  
  
            She ignores him.  “It’s why I wanted to come here and tell you to keep up the good fucking work-”

            The warning tumbles out of him: “Stop saying fuck.”  
  
            Her eyes gleam.  “-and to tear those cocksuckers apart.”  
  
            “Enough.”  He can’t believe it: the mouth on this girl.  His brain shifts gears to other questions.   “You say you’re like me, why give me Grotto?  You know what I do.  Why not finish him yourself on the street?” 

            Because that’s what she did: beat Grotto around and then let him loose, loud, for Frank.

            Her eyes narrow at him.  She was hoping he wouldn’t bring that up.  “I’ve been giving normal life a try.  Wasn’t looking to take anybody out last night.  Figured you were going to do that for me.  But I needed to find you.”

            “Tell me how much of a fan you are?”  
  
            “No,” she growls, admiration draining from her voice.  “I had to know if you killed the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

            “Thought you said-“  
  
            “I’m not with him.”  She makes a point of shuffling forward on the bench to jab her toe into the pavement: that’s how much _not with him_ she is.  “I just…kind of have this thing for dumbasses.  Can't seem to shake 'em.”

            “The Devil is that.”  
  
            “Yeah,” she agrees forcefully, “But he’s my dumbass, _dumbass_.” 

            Frank lets that slide.  The territorial edge to her voice.  He has to.  All his normal reactions go out the window when it’s a kid talking shit instead of a grown-ass man in a devil costume.  “And what if I had?  Could’ve put a bullet in that dumbass’s head a bunch last night.” 

            “Yeah.  And I would have killed you,” she promises. 

            God damn, he doesn’t doubt her for a second, this kid.  The fuck is she.  “Devil had to learn a lesson,” Frank finds himself explaining.  If she’s so much like him she’ll understand.   

            The girl cuts him off, her upper lip curling into a snarl.  “Yeah, about that.  You want to take a shot at his head, that’s what the fucking body armour’s for.  Whatever.  But forcing him to take a kill shot?” Shit - how the fuck did she get onto that roof without him knowing?  Only one way on and off, but she had to have been there to see the standoff with Grotto.  “That’s a dick move.  I wouldn’t do shit like that to him.”  And by the sounds of it, there’s a lot of things she would do to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

            “My da-“ she stops herself, swallows.  Thinks carefully about what she’s about to say.  “A guy I used to roll with-"

            "Another dumbass?"

            "No way," she says, admiration audible in her voice.  "Smartest guy I ever knew.  He told me that not everyone can do what we do.  Not everyone is supposed to.  So kill ‘em all, every last one of the evil motherfuckers out there, but let the Devils of Hell’s Kitchen make up their own fucking minds.” 

            “Why didn’t you do it?” Not that Frank wants her to: she’s too young to be pistol whipping low-lifes and threatening murder and _be like him_.  “You were on that roof.  Could’ve saved your dumbass a lot of trouble.”

            The girl sits in silence, lips pursed and eyes narrowed on the spinning carousel.

            Frank prods her: “You think he’s right?”

            The seriousness drains from her expression.  “No!  I called him a dumbass, didn’t I?  Jesus...” She shrugs.  “I thought he would take the fucking shot.  I thought that for sure.  You or Grotto.”

            He sighs, giving her a slight nod.  He really thought the Devil would have taken the shot too.  “Would have been the smart thing to do,” the girl adds, and Frank finds himself giving a slight nod again. 

            She grabs her backpack, stands up from the bench, and swings it over her shoulders.  She grabs her grocery bag and the hot chocolates too.  “So thank you,” she tells him, “But consider this a courtesy visit.”

            “Excuse me?” Frank asks.

            The girl grips the tray of hot chocolates.  From under a hood _with cat ears on it_ , she warns him, “You fuck with the Devil again, you fuck with me.”  
  
            Frank shakes his head.  This is weirder than the fucking devil.  “You can’t be serious.”  
  
            “I’m fucking levelling with you right now, asshole.”  She glares.  “ _Make_ him pull the trigger on anyone, Ziploc’s stock is going to go up from how many bags I’ll need for all the pieces I cut you into.  Get me?”

            Frank leans forward, staring this little girl down.  “Devil’s got no problems, he stays out of my way.”  
  
            She laughs.  “The devil has got so many problems from you then.  But try anything like that shit last night, you’re going to have problems with me.  Do what you want in this city, but you play fair with the fucking devil.  Get me?”

            “Who are you?” Frank asks.

            She sticks out a hand as if he might want to shake it, but all Frank does is take stock.  He twists her hand up and down, tracking the calluses on her trigger fingers, the rawness of her knuckles from throwing punches, the small scars from knife-play along her palms. 

            Frank pushes her hand back to her.  She smirks. 

            “I’m Hit-Girl.”

            Then she disappears into the crowd.  Frank looks around for her, but she’s gone.

* * *

             Matt wakes up to a knock at his door.  Karen?  Foggy?  No, the heartbeat is younger.  The knuckles are smaller; they have a shrilly sound when they rap against the door.  _Mindy_.  He pulls himself out of bed despite his overwhelming desire to hide, to lie low.  His head hurts.  His heart hurts.  Grotto is dead, Frank is still out there, and Mindy’s here.  The world has kept on spinning despite last night. 

            He puts on his glasses before opening the door.  The faint odour of GSR lingers on Mindy’s palms.  Trace amounts, nothing more, though Matt can tell she hasn’t slept, and that could mean anything where Hit-Girl and GSR are concerned. 

            Stronger than that is the smell of hot chocolate and muffins, the sound of her heartbeat bursting into a gallop.  Stark contrast to her pulse the night before when things were falling apart around her.  Mindy’s found some way of putting her world back together.

            “Did you go anywhere else last night?” Matt asks when she’s settled at the dining table. 

            “Nope,” Mindy’s pulse is too giddy to read properly.  “Straight home to bed.”  
  
            He tries again, hoping to trip her up.  “And today?”  
  
            Her heartbeat continues racing.  Excitement or deception or both.  “Nope.  Why?  Something happen?”

            Matt feels like something has, but he can’t say what.  “Don’t lie to me, Mindy.”

            She sighs, bringing her pulse right back down to an honest rhythm.  The cup in Matt’s hands seems to grow warmer.  “I’m just glad you’re okay.  You are okay, right, dumbass?”

            He scoffs, nodding.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m okay.”  
   
           “Good,” she agrees.  “Now, eat a fucking muffin.  You look like shit.” 

* * *

 

Happy reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt explains that he has to focus in order for his senses to work. During the scene with Grotto, he's pretty focused on Frank. I took this to mean he wouldn't hear another heartbeat on the roof, especially one that was purposefully trying to be quiet.
> 
> In the movie, Mindy really doesn’t give a shit if Dave (Kick-Ass) kills or not. It’s far more important that he get on board with the mission or get out of her way. I thought this made for an interesting contrast with Frank, a guy she thought who would truly understand her but tries to push people into his mission.


End file.
